


Hazy Days

by eirabach



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Brotherly Bonding, Crack, Gen, Hazing, pretty much, vague sexual references i guess?, we need more silliness in our lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23228038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eirabach/pseuds/eirabach
Summary: It's a tradition.(And what's the point of little brothers if you can't mess with them, anyway?)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To hopefully cheer us all up. Take care all <3

Gordon hovers at the threshold of the lounge, hiding behind the door frame as he listens to the sound of furniture scraping across the floor and the dull thud of wood against wood.

“Are you _sure_ this is a good idea?” someone says, voice low and urgent.

“It’s tradition,” comes the reply. 

“That isn’t what I asked though, is it.”

“You thought it was fun when we got Virg with the –”

“Hey! We promised never to speak of it!”

“Yeah yeah, come on hurry up, he’s gonna be in any minute –”

There’s another bang, and the sound of something heavy coming to rest. Then, a long, suspicious silence. Gordon knows a lot about suspicious silences. Enough that he ought to know better than to investigate them.

He doesn’t though, so there’s that.

Scott is sat behind their father’s desk, which is – not as weird as it used to be, exactly, but still just odd enough to draw Gordon’s attention. To draw him out. It is possible Scott is relying on this, of course. It is equally possible that it works.

“Ah, Gordon!” Scott says, like he hasn’t just been eating egg sandwiches with him twenty minutes ago, like he’s the CEO of an international company and Gordon’s the intern whose name Scott’s got down on a prompter. “Join us?”

Scott is the CEO of an international company, and okay Gordon isn’t the intern, exactly, but he’s compelled to obey nonetheless. He approaches the desk gingerly, noting the way Scott’s got his fingers pressed together, the absence of paperwork.

“Whatever this is, I don’t like it.”

“Why, what do you think this is?”

Gordon hesitates, eyes flicking from Scott to the two brothers sat either side of him. Virgil is wearing that face – the _this is for your own good_ face – that Gordon’s long since learnt to associate with things he’d really _really_ rather not experience. Decompression trials. Particle physics lectures. Grandma’s vindaloo. John looks – well, John looks like John. Cool, collected, clearly wishing with every bone in his body that he was anywhere else. Gordon’s always liked that about John, the predictability. Now it only serves to solidify the queasy sort of feeling in his chest into what could best be described as _dread_.

“An – intervention?”

A muscle twitches in Virgil’s jaw. John huffs, his fingernails tap tap tapping against the plexiglass screen of the tab in front of him. Scott lifts one eyebrow, leans forward, and lowers his voice.

“Do you _require_ an intervention?”

“Are you _asking_?”

Scott beams at him, a full, shit-eating grin; Gordon takes three solid steps back. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it sounds genuine enough but that grin is nothing but unnerving. “That we missed your birthday.”

Ah. Well.

It’s not like it could be _helped_ , the timing. It’s not like that guy capsized his yacht on purpose. Or the planet decided to shift its plates just to fuck with him. Or the ISS crapped out on its orbit _just because_ it happened to be Gordon Tracy’s birthday.

His eighteenth birthday, not that he’s counting. Not that anyone had been counting. Even Grandma’s cake had been a – thankfully – minuscule affair, topped with shop bought fondant and a single candle that he’d blown out with the last puff of exhaustion at midnight.

 _Make a wish, Gordon._ Right. Like he doesn’t do that _hourly_.

Still, it was better than last year. Last year he’d spent it at the bottom of the ocean, tucked up tight in his ‘bird. Not because he had to, not because there was any one to save, but because – because there hadn’t been. He’d been desperate for distraction, then. For anything to take his mind off the constant sickening ache of remembering and missing and knowing that _this_ is what every birthday would be like, now. Forever. 

_Orphan._

Last year had been, frankly, shit. 

“Noted, and as you should be,” Gordon says, and narrows his eyes. “So what, you’re gonna make it up to me?”

Scott sits back in their dad’s chair, arms behind his head and grins. “Yeah.”

This is – not reassuring.

“Where’s Alan?”

Virgil moves, cracking his neck as he stretches, and Gordon winces because he’s seen the footage from that ‘quake. His brother has gotta be feeling it.

“Gordon, you’re eighteen now,” he says, perfectly solemn, and Scott’s expression tries to rearrange itself into something a little less – worrying. John rolls his eyes. “That makes you –" a long pause, all dramatic effect, “a _man_.”

“Oh God.”

“And when you’re a man –” From the drawer of dad’s desk appears an item that Gordon would prefer to never, ever, _ever_ consider his father having any use of. At all. 

He probably didn’t. 

There _are_ five of them.

“Oh God, oh _God_ , Jesus, anyone, _don’t_.”

“You see, Gordy,” says Scott, tipping the contents of the box onto the desk with the sort of glee Gordon hasn’t seen from him in at least eighteen months. “When a man loves a –”

“Scott I will pay you not to finish that sentence.”

“With what, my money?”

“ _Scott_!”

“All right, all right,” Scott actually laughs, then, hands raised in surrender. “You win. Virgil, finish the sentence.”

“That isn’t what I –”

“Gordon,” Virgil says, and what the – he’s holding a banana. Why is he holding a banana. Why isn’t the ground opening up and swallowing Gordon whole? “As your brothers –”

Scott cuts in. “Your older, _responsible_ , brothers.” 

“We feel it’s important to talk to you about –” another dramatic pause, there was always too much theatre kid in Virgil, “ _safety_.”

Gordon can’t really back much further away, not without either actually running for it or tripping over the back of the sofa and concussing himself. He considers it anyway, but instead settles for throwing his hands up in front of him.

“No. Nuh-uh. No way. I have _had_ this little chat. I went to school. I spent two and a half _years_ living in dorms with eighty five _really really fit_ people, okay? I _know_.” He turns, desperately, to the only other person who could _possibly_ hate this conversation more than he does. “Johnny, tell them!”

John pushes a little foil packet towards him with the same delicacy Virgil would use to defuse a bomb. Gordon stares at him.

“Don’t look at me,” John says, dropping the tab down beside it, “I don’t want to be here anymore than you do.”

“Then _why_ ,” Gordon hisses, “are you _here_?”

John blinks at him, then nods to the tab. “Schematics.”

That does it, he bolts, fingers in his ears and shirt flapping behind him as he practically throws himself out of the villa and down towards the beach. Scott sighs happily, rubbing his hands together before pocketing all but one of the condoms. This he offers to Virgil, who declines with a wave. John plucks the banana from Virgil’s hand and peels it before lifting it in salute toward Gordon’s rapidly disappearing form.

“To adulthood,” John intones. “And all its many –” his nose wrinkles momentarily “ _challenges_.”

Virgil scoffs, but Scott smiles. 

“Godspeed, kid,” he says, soft as can be. “Godspeed.”


	2. Alan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forgot I hadn't posted this one here! Might do the other boys eventually??

When you’re an active part of International Rescue, birthdays are always kinda weird. There’s never any guarantee that you won’t spend it halfway up a mountain, or under the sea, or attached to a screaming, hysterical mass of very swiftly Earthbound space tourists. It’s the way of things. Alan’s used to it.

This is pretty surreal, though. Even for them.

The lights are dimmed, the windows sealed, and although that in itself isn’t unusual -- Dad is yet to readjust to the brightness of life on the island -- the way that each of his brothers sit around in the shadows, the lamplight focused on a single point, the  _ bucket _ . All of that’s weird. Bizarre. 

“Freaky,” he says, keeping to the edge of the lounge. “You’re all freaky, you know that?”

“Come in, Alan,” Virgil intones. His mouth barely moves. “It’s your birthday.”

“It’s your birthday, Alan,” says John, and when did he get down, anyway? And why? And why is he holding a light stick under his chin like that?

“Alan.” Scott starts, and Alan throws his hands up in surrender.

“Nope, no way. Whatever you’re doing I am  _ not  _ getting involved. Leave me out of it.” He moves to back out of the room, but his way is blocked by MAX, whisks aloft. “Oh come  _ on _ .”

The light on the desk flares into life to reveal his dad, fingers steepled, and a large bottle of what Alan recognises to be really very expensive, very  _ strong _ , whisky. 

“Alan,” he says. There’s a twitch in his cheek that Alan wouldn’t recognise except for the fact that Gordon inherited it and it means he’s about to be in a whole  _ heap _ of trouble. “It’s your birthday.”

“Oh jeez. Not you too, I figured you’d be better than this.”

His dad lifts an eyebrow. “Not sure I follow your meaning, son.”

“The weirdness.” Alan gestures to the circle of poorly lit brotherhood. Gordon’s face is twisted up into what he probably hopes looks like solemnity but in fact makes him look like he’s crapped in his wetsuit. “The whatever the heck this is -- some weird culty birthday cult thing?” He dares to take a step closer, peering down into the bucket. “Is there cake in that?”

“Grandma’s made you a cake,” says his dad, and he does at least sound sorry about  _ that _ . “This -- this is a right of passage, son.”

“Come into the light, Alan,” coos Gordon, and Alan scoffs. 

“Not  _ likely _ .”

“Aw, don't be like --”

“I’m sorry I’m late -- w-why are you all sitting in the dark?” 

“ _ Brains! _ ”

They’re all half blinded by the midday sun as the windows clear and there’s a brief disorienting pause as they all scrub at their eyes and ignore Gordon rolling about on the floor hissing. Brains is immediately apologetic, fluttering around their dad and readjusting the shutters to spare delicate retinas. The lounge looks considerably less creepy, now. There are even some parcels, wrapped John-neat in red shiny paper topped with silver bows, and seven cut glass tumblers lined up on the coffee table.

“This looks nicer?” he tries, after Virgil’s dragged Gordon up from the ground and his dad’s settled behind sunglasses. “We couldn’t have started with this?”

“ _ Atmosphere _ , Alan,” says John, but there’s a laugh behind it now, without the ghoulish green of the light stick. “I thought you’d appreciate it.”

“I don’t need atmosphere and you know it.” Alan finally steps into the circle and toes at the bucket. It’s empty, which if the cake is really from Grandma, is probably for the best. “Presents, though --” He picks up the top parcel and shakes it, not all that gently. Virgil squeaks. 

“Hold that thought.” His dad stands, holding the bottle, and shuffles his way down into the conversation pit. He’s getting steadier, Alan thinks. He’s lifting his feet more, now, his body slowly readjusting to a constant state of gravity. “First things first.”

He stops, looks at Scott. Virgil looks at Dad, looking at Scott. Gordon looks at Alan. John looks at the floor. Scott sits back further in his seat and purses his lips.

“Right,” says Dad. “Right. First things first, Alan. It’s your birthday --”

“That’s established.”

“--your  _ eighteenth _ birthday. Traditionally, this is the day you become a man.”

Alan wrinkles his nose. “Sounds overrated.”

“Oh it  _ is _ ,” Gordon mutters before Virgil elbows him into silence. 

“ _ So _ ,” his dad continues, the sunglasses sparing Gordon from what would be a pretty cutting glare, “I --  _ we _ \-- thought, that we should honor that.” He pours a finger of whisky into each glass, then lifts his own to his lips. “Happy birthday Alan.” Then, after he swallows the golden liquid in one gulp. “I’ve counted the bottles, so don’t even think about it.”

Alan watches, eyes just the wrong side of bleary, as each of his brothers knocks back their own drink and Brains sips at his, his brow pinched. 

“I prefer a nice g-gin and tonic,” he offers apologetically, putting half his glass back on the table where it’s swiftly disposed of by Scott. “S-sorry.”

Alan swirls the whisky around his own glass and gazes down at his warped reflection.

“That okay, Allie?” his dad’s voice is soft and gentle and still achingly unfamiliar, but Alan leans into the hand on his shoulder regardless. 

“Yeah -- yeah, it’s -- yeah.” He lifts the glass in salute, drinks, and spits, violently, into the bucket at his feet “What the  _ hell _ ?! Jeez  _ DAD _ ! Are you tryin’ to  _ kill  _ me you drink this for  _ fun _ ? I take it back you’re just as weird, you’re the  _ weirdest _ this is  _ gross _ this is --”

And secretly, beyond the burn in his throat and the heat in his cheeks, more than John’s too-rare giggle or Scott’s glee or the presents waiting in their pile -- the boom of his father’s laughter is the best gift he never dared to ask for.


End file.
